Page 1 of Faking It with the Omega

Aiden

Here we go. Gym number five. The Foundry.

As soon as I walk in, my stomach sinks, because the place reeks of alphas. And as I walk through the entrance, they’re all I can see: alphas to the right, alphas to the left. Alphas on the heavy bags, alphas on the machines. There are two alphas sparring in the boxing ring that dominates the center of the cavernous space, both of them built like brick shithouses. One of them is cursing in French, but he’s still an alpha.

No one turns their heads when I walk in, because to them, I look like just another alpha. Six foot, muscular, broad-shouldered. But if I wasn’t wearing the strongest blockers I could find to neutralize my sweet orange blossom—distinctly omega—scent, they’d be staring.

I know because I’ve been in that exact situation more than once.

This is my fifth gym across two cities in four years—I’ve been kicked out of all the others within a few months of joining, although they never call it kicking me out. It’s always been gently phrased as something that sounds well-meaning but stings just the same.

“We think you’d be better suited to a different environment.”

“We think you’ve outgrown our capabilities as a gym.”

“I’m sure you understand. You don’t want to make the other omegas uncomfortable, do you?”

Other omegas either think there’s an alpha wandering around their gym, or they’re afraid I’ll break their ribs if they spar with me. Which, to be fair, I probably would.

I’ve only tried one other alpha-dominant gym, which wasn’t quite as tactful as the omega-only kind.

“You’re distracting the alphas. Maybe you should stick to omega-only gyms?”

So this is attempt number five. The Foundry’s website doesn’t say anything about them being alpha-only, and it’s common knowledge to anyone with even a passing interest in the local boxing scene that the owner is dating another alpha, so maybe they’re… progressive? Not total assholes?

An alpha with a scent not unlike gas fumes waddles past me. I give it ten minutes until someone figures out I’m an omega and asks me if I’m looking for the Pilates studio down the street.

Before I can even find a front desk, a guy leans out from behind a counter stacked with clipboard sign-ins and tubs of protein powder.

He’s mid-thirties, a couple of inches taller than me with a shock of auburn hair, and a crooked, impossibly bright smile. He’s wearing a faded Foundry hoodie with the sleeves pushed up his strong forearms, revealing a haphazardly placed array of ink, and his scent hits me before I’ve even gotten close enough for him to notice me. He smells like cherries and something mature—bourbon, maybe. Not gas fumes. Definitely not gas fumes.

I instinctively take a deeper inhale.

“Afternoon,” he says easily when he spots me, his smile widening. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before—looking to sign up?”

“Potentially,” I reply, keeping my voice flat, my arms automatically crossing over my chest. “Maybe looking for a trainer.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says cheerfully, walking round the counter and sticking out his hand. I take it cautiously, bracing for the moment he figures out he’s not talking to another alpha. I put my dynamic on the form I filled out online, but something about this guy makes me think he’s probably not the form-reading type. “I’m Jed. Officially The Foundry’s evening trainer, but you’ll find me here at all times of the day. Can’t stay away from the fucking place. What’s your name, big guy?”

“Aiden.”

“Aiden,” Jed repeats. “Good to meet you, Aiden. You a newbie, or have you boxed before?”

I blink, a little thrown off by the lack of preamble, and by this guy’s vibe. He’s not at all like any other alpha trainer I’ve encountered in my ill-fated gym search. He’s sort of… bubbly? Affable? It’s putting me on edge.

“I’ve trained for four years,” I say cautiously. “Partly with trainers, but partly self-taught because gym owners keep deciding I’m a liability.”

Jed snorts a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “A liability? Why? Do you like biting your trainers or something?”

A smile threatens to tug up the corners of my lips, but I push it down. “I’m an omega,” I say bluntly. May as well rip the band-aid off. “I’m too big for omega gyms, too omega for alpha gyms.”

Jed squints, slowly raising a finger to point at me. My muscles tense, already primed for the rejection. “Yes,” he hisses. “Yes. Marcus mentioned that an omega was coming in tonight. You filled out an online form, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Shit, sorry, yeah. The online stuff is kind of over my head; it’s a new thing Marcus brought in recently, and sometimes I just don’t listen when he talks about it. Don’t tell him I said that.”

I pause, wondering if he’s telling me this because his boss—I’m taking a wild guess that’s who this Marcus guy is—has already warned him I was coming and he’s about to turn me away. “Okay. So… is that going to be a problem?”